


The Wings of the Crow

by Proud Rose (The_Author)



Series: The Natia Timeline [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Con Artists, F/M, Fraud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Author/pseuds/Proud%20Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natia Brosca desires only two things in this world: love and money, and she cannot have one without the other. She refuses to settle down with her lover, the Antivan assassin Zevran, without first being secure in her finances. She will not end up like her mother- a poor, drunken duster with no future. When a rich Orlesian noblewoman arrives with dreams of reuniting with the dashing Antivan who assassinated her abusive husband, Natia conspires to gain the woman's fortune out from under her. - a rewrite of Henry James's <i>The Wings of the Dove</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She waited for her father to come in, for as usual he was not on time. He was never on time, least of all for appointments he himself had scheduled. Natia Brosca settled into the shabby sofa, one foot carelessly braced against a low stool, and her back to the door. She could hear the sounds of the street floating up into the apartment. Whores advertising themselves on corners, dock workers barking out orders, mothers chastising their wayward children... She found comfort in it. It reminded her of home. There was life in it, more than there ever was at Vigil's Keep. Her father would disagree. Why should any blood relation of the Hero of Ferelden, the Paragon Brosca, be subjected to such squalor? Of course, one would first have to _prove_ that Farulf Helmson was indeed any blood relation of hers. She had still been in her mother's womb when her father abandoned the family for the surface. He never had the chance to claim her, and so she had been given her mother's name upon her birth. Of course, this could all be remedied if only she would publicly admit their kinship. The Shaperate would record it in the Memories that Servant Caste Farulf Helmson had sired the great Paragon Brosca. He'd be elevated to the Noble Caste, be allowed to petition the Grey Wardens for a pension upon her death, live the life he believed he was always meant to. _If_ Natia acknowledged him as her father.

Which she would not.

He had once visited her at Vigil's Keep and made such overtures upon her "good" nature -- and if Farulf had any knowledge of his daughter, he would know just how far from "good" her nature was -- that it filled Natia with merciless, stale feelings at the sight of him. Realizing that he was getting nowhere, Farulf had slunk back to the hole he had crawled out of. Now it seemed he had come up with a new plan of attack. He had written her that he was ill, too ill to leave his room, and that he must see her without delay. The fact that this was some half-cooked plot on his part did not fail to escape Natia's notice, but it amused her and so she was not overly vexed to be here. Besides, it suited her own plans just fine.

At last the door opened and Natia did not bother to turn around and greet the man. He came around the sofa and took a seat in the overstuffed armchair across from her, all pink and silver as to skin and hair, practically glowing with health. As she had expected, there was no truth in him. He dealt out lies as he might the cards from a greasy old playing pack. He sat straight in his chair, his cane resting against his leg, and to look at him one would think: _What a fine old, dwarven gentleman!_ He had kind, safe eyes, a soft voice, and an eccentric, bumbling air to his manners. Those who knew him a little said, "How he does dress!" Those who knew him better said, "How _does_ he?" He gave you funny feelings, he had indescribable arts, that quite turned the tables on his victims. Natia could see how even a hard, lifeless creature like her mother could become infatuated with such a man.

"I'm glad you're so much better," Natia remarked, a sardonic smile twisted the edges of her mouth.

"I'm not so much better, my dear. I'm exceedingly unwell. I've been out to see the herbalist, that beastly fellow at the corner. I've had to take all manner of medicines and I fear it hasn't done me a bit of good. It's just why I've sent for you-- that you may see me as I really am."

"Mr. Helmson, it's long since I've ceased to see you otherwise than as you really are." Natia stood up and stretched her legs, examining her father's flat with a critical eye. Meanwhile, her father did the same to her. He looked her over, judging her appearance as she could always trust him to do. Recognizing, estimating, as to her value and what he might get from her. Her looks were hardly worth mentioning. Natia was no great beauty; if she wasn't a Paragon, she would even be called ugly. A large nose, very little chin, and a pair of hard, merciless eyes sent most men fleeing. Not only did Natia take no pains in making herself more presentable, she seemed to revel in her own hideousness. With such unfortunate looks, any other girl would cling to her femininity, but Natia did the opposite. Instead of covering up her ugliness, she shone a spotlight onto it. The sides of her head were shaved and she pulled back what was left of her bright red hair into a ragged ponytail. She did not bother to cover her brand with lead powder and chalk; not that it would do much good now, seeing as how half of her face was covered in tattoos. To top it off, her lips were painted a garish red and kohl thickly lined her eyes. Her "war paint" as she termed it. It was sheer spite and obstinacy that pushed her to such extreme measures. It was a damn shame she didn't look more like her sister Rica. Now there was a beautiful woman. The hitch, of course, was that Rica was not Farulf's daughter and so it did not matter if she was beautiful. She was of no use to him. Still, Natia had done quite well for herself. Who could have imagined an ugly duster like her could be made Paragon?

"Alright, I'll stay with you." The words startled Farulf from his assessment.

"I beg your pardon?" He asked.

She quirked her brow, the taunting smile still on her face. "It's clear that you will need someone to look after you in your time of illness. After all, I am your daughter." It was the first time Natia had ever admitted herself as such out loud, and Farulf had almost wished she hadn't for her smile became quite vicious. "And there is the matter of your business. You'll need someone to run it for you. I heard of your recent contract with the Chantry-- bought it right out from underneath the Cadashes. I'll admit I was impressed when I heard that. But how do you expect to deliver the lyrium as sick as you are?"

Farulf puttered and hemmed at this, trying to find some pretext to back out easily. He had hoped he might guilt her into recognizing him as her father -- or, at the very least, send him a monthly allowance -- if she thought he was on his deathbed. But living with him? _Taking over his business_? That was just too much.

He looked at her cool blue eyes and saw she cared not at all for his embarrassment. "Oh my child, I can never consent to that! What about the Grey Wardens? You are the Warden-Commander of Ferelden! What would they do without you?"

She waved her hand airly, as though it meant nothing. "I can retire and live on my pension. Two hundred sovereigns a year."

"That's hardly enough to live on."

"I've lived on less."

Farulf shifted uncomfortably as she looked at him pointedly, reminding him of all the ways his family suffered in his absence. "Surely you cannot possibly mean to give it all up! You are their Hero!"

"And I think I've given the Grey Wardens enough of me. It's time to settle down. You are family, after all. Broscas never abandon one of their own."

Farulf hummed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at Natia's deliberate cat-like easiness. There was an angle here that he couldn't see yet. He knew she was playing him. "You did not think so before. You cannot think that I believe you've had such a change of heart."

Natia shrugged. "I don't think I care what you believe. I never, for that matter, think of you at all. I don't know you, Father."

Ah, now there was a bit of truth. "And it's your idea to make up for that?"

"Oh, by the Stone, no. What little I do know of you has been enough to satisfy whatever lingering, childish curiosity I ever had about you. But, it does seem to me that we might be able to help each other. Of course, I've not the least idea how you get on."

"I don't get on," Farulf gaily replied.

Natia laughed. It was light and genuine and not at all the mocking bark that he had only ever heard from her. "Oh, I beg your pardon. You _flourish_." But then she sobered, her hard face becoming serious once more. "One hundred sovereigns a year, plus my own not inconsiderable reputation, should put your small lyrium operation ahead of the Cadashes. Of course, I'll be setting aside the other hundred from my pension for Rica and Little Endrin. Sure, she's King Bhelen's beloved wife now, but you know how dwarven politics are."

"Oh, you weak thing!" Her father kindly sighed.

"For you and me together," she went on. "The other hundred would do something."

"And what would do the rest?"

"Can you do nothing yourself?" He gave her a look, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stood up to go over to the little window. She said nothing more. The silence lasted for a minute, broken by the call of an appealing costermonger, which came in through the window with the mild Cloudreach air, the shabby sunshine, and the small homely hum of Chirk Street.

And then he said, "I thought once you became a Grey Warden, you were a Grey Warden for life. I've never heard of anyone leaving the Order before." He turned back to look at her. "Unless they've been cast out."

Natia didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. "I stopped the Blight before it could overwhelm Thedas, when I was only a Grey Warden recruit, and all they would give me is two hundred sovereigns a year? How am I to support a family on that?"

"But the arling--"

"Belongs to the Grey Wardens, not me. I was merely entrusted with it. All that work, and I thought: Why shouldn't I get a little something out of it? I was able to get away with it for about six months before Mistress Woolsey noticed the books had been altered."

Farulf sat back down. "You embezzled from the _Grey Wardens_?"

"Attempted embezzlement. As you can see, I didn't succeed. It was suggested to me that I should take that long walk into the Deep Roads. An honorable death for such a great hero as myself. When I made it clear that wouldn't be happening, I then 'retired'. No one wants to accuse the Hero of Ferelden of being of thief. But the point still stands, I need money and your business is shaping up quite nicely. Of course, I've no doubt you'll ruin it if left to your own devices. You haven't the balls, much less the brains, for operating large-scale. The Cadash Family will eat you alive. But, in more capable hands, your business could do quite nicely. And in return for handing it over, I will publically acknowledge you as my father. You'll be treated like royalty."

Farulf had always been a two-bit conman. What Natia was suggesting was so completely over his head that he feared what the future might bring. He had no intention of keeping the contract; he had planned to sell it to the Cadashes at a higher offer. The Cadash Family had a monopoly on the lyrium trade. Anyone who attempted to break it invariably wound up dead, usually with several limbs missing. His daughter was a madwoman, anyone who charged straight into the path of an Archdemon had to be mad and Farulf wanted nothing to do with this. He liked his arms and legs right where they were at, thank you. "Perhaps there are other options?" Farulf hemmed. "What of King Bhelen? He owes you everything. Surely he wouldn't let you starve."

Natia snorted. It was not altogether a very feminine or delicate sound. "Oh, he's got schemes of his own. Good 'Cousin' Maud has made an interesting proposal."

"Who?"

"A surfacer King Bhelen's hired to pose as my cousin, but really she's just a fancy matchmaker. I'm not getting any younger and once I die the Brosca line will end. I am the only surfacer to be made a Paragon and Orzammar desperately needs topside gold and trade. If I marry into the right family, some _nouveau riche_ surfacer clan -- the Cadashes, for example -- King Bhelen could then marry my children off to Orzammar nobles who could make use of their land and money. As the offspring of a Paragon, they wouldn't be looked down upon as other surfacers are."

"Well, it seems to me like you've got yourself an admirable opportunity! I don't know why you shouldn't be more pleased."

Natia did not look away. Her eyes bored into his, cold and harsh like steel and snow. But he could read her just the same, as any good conman. "Oh, I see. The matter with you is that you're already in love, and that this Maud woman knows and -- for reasons, I'm sure, perfect -- hates and opposes it. So tell me: who is this blackguard you intend to marry? I'm sure he hasn't a penny to his name."

"You ask a great deal of satisfaction," Natia observed. "For the little you give."

"You are just like your mother! And here I thought you had taken after me, but I see you haven't any sense at all! And just why haven't you married your pauper yet, hm? I can only hope it's because you still have reason enough to see what a terrible idea it would be, even if you won't admit to it. After all, what is love without money? Love won't feed you, it won't keep you warm or give you a roof over your head. Give up this man, whoever he is, or keep him as a cicisbeo if you must. But, by the Stone, don't settle down with him out of some misguided sense of loyalty."

Natia stood up, her countenance severe and aloof and untouchable as always, as though nothing Farulf could say mattered to her at all. "You may not believe me," she stated lightly, her voice a studied air of nonchalance. "But I would have been glad to have named you my father if you had shown me the least bit of loyalty. There is nothing more important to me than family. I would lie, cheat, and kill for them. When I was still the Warden-Commander, it was easy enough to keep them safe but now my situation has changed. If you had just said to me, 'Yes, we'll stand together. We won't worry in advance about how or where; we have each other and we'll find a way.' I would have gladly -- proudly -- called you father, no matter the things you've done, the crimes you've committed."

"I've done you a solid: I've given you the best and clearest advice," he replied as he showed her to the door. "If it displeases you, you can go to your lover to be consoled."


	2. Chapter 2

When Natia arrived at Cousin Maud's grand estate in Denerim, it was to much fanfare. The wind was filled with the heavy smells of spring blossoms and there was the taste of romance in the air as the humans frolicked through the city. They pressed in close to her carriage, trying to capture a peek of her face as she sped past them. The people were excited by the thought of their Hero finally laying down her sword and settling down. They imagined a beautiful fairy tale wedding for her, the perfect end to the story. "She will make a lovely bride," they all sighed, and because they had only ever seen drawings of her in books and pamphlets -- drawings that were far too kind and not at all accurate -- they believed it. It wouldn't be the first time that Natia had been expected to accept other people's interpretation of her, the version of her that met their convenience. She, however, had never been afraid of the truth. She used lies like a sword, but as a shield they were useless. She would not hide behind pretty untruths, no matter how easy the path may seem. Natia would pull back the curtain and reveal all her black faults and mistakes, tear down the idol these people had made her into, and she'd do it gladly and spitefully. If they couldn't accept her as she really was then it was their own fault. But for the time being the lies they made up about her had proven to be useful, so Natia smiled and waved as prettily as any noblewoman at the thronging people from her carriage. She could play along for now.

There was construction going on all around as the carriage pulled down Canal Street. The darkspawn had devastated the ancient city; very few of the original wooden buildings had survived and Queen Anora had taken the opportunity to rebuild Denerim into a modern city fit for Ferelden. The stone mansions that had been erected along the canal were similar in style to their Marcher cousins. Imposing, perfectly cut squares that looked out like giants across the gray-green water. The tall, rich, heavy house at the end of the street belonged to Maud Greymantle.

It was strange to think of the Natia she had once been while living in Dust Town. It would have been impossible for that Natia to envision a house as large and grand as the one that belonged to Maud. When her mother had managed to secure the two-room flat in a dilapidated tenement overcrowded with almost a hundred people, Natia had thought it to be the height of luxury; she still remembered a time when the Broscas had lived in a small hole they had dug themselves and covered with a few loose, stray boards when she was very young. The surface had overwhelmed her when she had first arrived over a year ago. Everything was a new experience for Natia, and her lover had delighted in being the one to introduce her to such new and opulent adventures. He had reveled in his role of teacher, taking her to plays and operas, showering her in chocolate and feather beds and fine clothes, all to see that look of childlike wonder on her usually hard face. "Spoiling," he had teasingly called it, but it was the truth. Natia was spoiled now. She had seen how the other half lived and she refused to go back into the dust that she had crawled out of. She liked the rich foods, the fancy clothes, and the operas even if she couldn't understand the words. The surface world was different -- whether for better or for worse -- than what she had learned from her rudimentary schooling, and it gave her the feeling of a wasted past. This could have all been hers before now if she had only been brave enough to leave Orzammar and take it. She wouldn't have had to rely on handouts, she could have made her own money working for any human. Natia had never felt so safe then when she had money. She didn't have to look over her shoulder every minute, or worry about food or the cold. But money slipped so easily from her grasp and she needed more and more of it all the time.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the grand, wide steps of Maud's estate and Natia popped out before the driver could come around to open the door. Maud was already waiting, along with the butler and the rest of the house staff. The servants bowed to her as she came up the steps to stand beside Maud, who held out her hands to grasp her and kiss her on the cheek. The old lady's claw-like grip dug into her and Natia felt as if she had just been thrown into the cage of a lioness. She looked like some prowling, predatory creature too. She had the air of a noblewoman, but her conduct was that of her Warrior Caste ancestors. Beneath her florid philistinism, her plumes and heaving bosom, the false gods of her taste and false notes of her talk, there was a woman who was complex and subtle, practical and ruthless. Her gilded mansion was a fortress from which she conducted her aggressive military operations, the ballroom was a battlefield, and the luxurious, feather bed was where negotiations of surrender took place.

"It's good to see you've finally arrive!" She called, her moss-colored eyes raking over the former Warden and once again Natia found herself being assessed and appraised. "I know you must be worn out from your journey, but your sister has just arrived from Orzammar and wishes to see you."

"Rica is here?"

"Yes, she's in the upstairs parlor. I'm sure the two of you have plenty to catch up on, so I will leave you to your privacy. Henry will show you up."

Natia made her way through the sprawling house at such a pace that even for a human the butler had trouble keeping up with her ground-eating steps, their heels clicking together on the polished floor. The mansion was a like a work of art. Beautiful designs had been cut into the stone walls, delicately woven tapestries that depicted famous battles and pastoral scenes had been hung up, and the heavy brass chandeliers sparkled in the low light. Eventually, their winding tour came to a stop. "I present the Warden-Commander of Ferelden," Henry announced as he opened the pair of wide, paneled doors that led into the parlor. "Hero of--"

"Rica!" Natia called, pushing her way through to greet her sister. She dimly recognized that she had once again broken from decorum when Henry muttered out the rest of her accomplishments and quickly ducked from the room, but it didn't matter because her sister was there holding her in a warm embrace.

"I've missed you so much," Rica breathed into her neck, squeezing so tightly that for a moment Natia wondered if perhaps her sister had missed her calling as a warrior.

Natia pulled back, grinning at the sight of her. "What's this?" She teased and swiped a finger across Rica's cheek, taking with it the powder Rica had applied to her face in an effort to hide her brand.

"Stop it, do you know how long it takes me to put it on each morning?" She finally pulled away and pushed at her sister until Natia was sitting on one of the silk-covered chairs, a scone in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Rica took her seat across from her, smoothing out the embroidered silk of her dress. She was richly attired, fit for a queen. When Natia had been younger, there had been no one in the world so pretty as Rica, no one so charming, so clever, so assured of happiness and success. There was much Natia owed to her mother, Kalah; it was only because of Kalah's sheer stubbornness that ensured their survival, her bitter resentment kept her going even when so many dusters died from starvation and illness and abuse. Her life would have been easier if she had abandoned Rica and Natia in the Deep Roads. It was common enough in Dust Town. No one cared when babies went missing in the slums. With no children dragging her down, she might have been able to find steady work. But she had refused. Natia didn't think it was love that stopped her from doing it. Dust Town had made her mother hard, just as it had made Natia hard. She wasn't sure if the woman was capable of loving anymore, but she possessed a fierce, undying loyalty inside her, like all Broscas. Rica and Natia belonged to her, just as she belonged to them. Natia would protect and care for her mother -- her mother, drunk and bitter and hateful -- not because she loved her, but because she was _hers_. No, Natia didn't love her mother, but she did love Rica. It was Rica who had brushed and braided her hair each morning, Rica who gave her the lion's share of supper, Rica who had petted her and sang to her and tucked her in at night... And it was Rica who had whored herself out to nobles while Natia cut throats for local crime bosses.

"Where's my nephew?" Natia demanded as she bit into her scone.

Rica was quick to hand her sister a napkin. "With his father, my Lord Husband, safely nestled within Orzammar's clutches. Can you imagine the heir to House Aeducan taking a trip to the surface? The nobles would be in an uproar. Moreso than they already are."

Natia barked out a laugh. "I bet Bhelen makes you call him _my Lord Husband_ in bed too."

Rica's lips twisted in a way that always meant she was caught between laughing at her sister's antics and chastising her for them. "Don't let anyone else hear you say such things about our King. They'll think you're nothing more than some irreverent duster."

"I am nothing more than an irreverent duster."

"That's not true. You're a hero."

"Only because I'm so very good at killing things. I could almost confuse the battlefield for home."

Rica fell silent at that and looked down at the empty teacup in her hands as an awkwardness settled over them. It annoyed Natia how sensitive Rica could be about their past. It was easier for her to pretend away the darker parts of their history and weave a prettier story. But all the powder in the world couldn't remove the brand from Rica's skin. She would always be a lying, good-for-nothing casteless duster to the nobles whose circles she now moved in, no matter that her husband was King and her sister Paragon. If Natia had been in her shoes, she would have rubbed their noses in it, flaunted her brand and worn it like battle scar, but Rica was not like her. She wanted to be a lady, beautiful and delicate and cherished, like the ones from the stories they grew up listening to. Natia shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. "As glad as I am to see you, I know this isn't strictly a social visit. What does Bhelen want now?"

King of Orzammar was hardly the grand title it once was. The vast dwarven empire had fallen to the darkspawn and only Orzammar and Kal-Sharok were left, but everyone knew that they too would eventually succumb to the Blight. In the meantime, Orzammar would die a slow death of inflation and economic depression as its coffers were slowly depleted. More and more people were abandoning the city to live among the humans and elves on the surface, but still the nobles clung stubbornly to tradition. There was a whole, wide world above them, ready to trade, but they preferred to remain locked inside their tomb. King Bhelen had grand ideas on how to restore lost dwarven glory. He was a reformer, a revolutionary, who advocated for full rights for casteless and surfacers. But beneath that there was a scheming, political mind who moved people across the playing board like chess pieces. Nothing mattered less than what might become of Natia or anyone else in the process.

Rica put the cup down with a sigh. "I know of your... _retirement_ and... Well, your business is of course your own business, but I won't hold back when I state that both my husband and I fear you might throw yourself away on some fool notion."

"Both of you?" Natia inquired as she narrowed her gaze at the woman sitting before her. Rica had changed, and it wasn't just the face powder. She looked every inch like the noblewomen who had spat abuse at them as they swept the floors of shops when they were children, a well-turned out doll for Bhelen to play with. She was little more than a ragged relic, a prosaic result of him, as if she had somehow been pulled through him as through an obstinate funnel, only to be left crumpled and useless and with nothing in her but what he accounted for. In a way, Rica reminded her of their mother, both forever marked by their men. If that was what marriage did to a woman, Natia would have questioned the whole institution. It was a grave example of what a man -- and such a man! -- might make of a woman. "I don't quite see," Natia answered. "Where, in particular, it strikes you that my danger lies. I am not the least bit inclined to throw myself anywhere. As a matter of fact, I feel as if I have been quite sufficiently thrown."

"You mean you don't want to marry Zevran Arainai?"

Natia couldn't deny the little hitch she felt at the sound of her lover's name. "Zevran isn't the marrying kind," she said lightly. Her posture shifted, taking on the relaxed, unbothered air of a cat. A studied look of nonchalance. Rica was well-versed in her sister's defenses and sighed as the other woman closed herself off to her.

"Settle with, then. Become exclusive to. You've frightened away every suitor Cousin Maud has introduced you to."

Natia shrugged. "How is that my fault? And, anyway, I don't know why that would make you talk of Zevran."

"I talk of him because you don't. You never do, in spite of what I know-- that's what makes me think of him. Or rather perhaps it's what makes me think of _you_. I had higher hopes for you than an assassin. When you were named Paragon, I thought you would leave that life behind forever. And he's... he wants to pull you back in it! I've heard stories of his rampage across Thedas, murdering every Antivan Crow he comes across. I'm so afraid of him. If you really want to know, he fills me with terror. I dislike him as much as I dread him."

"You really think it's wise to say such things to me?"

"No," Rica confessed. "But if I didn't say something I would hate myself forever for doing you such a disservice."

"Because he hasn't any money, except what he can steal from the Crows?"

"Because he is a criminal. Because he is being hunted by his fellow assassins. Because he has no money and I do not believe he will ever have money. He will spend the rest of his life on the run, moving from place to place and never settling down anywhere. If he lives long enough to have a life, that is. You deserve so much more than that. Cousin Maud's young man is kind and well-off and will treat you right. It may not be love at first sight, in fact you might never grow to love him, but the potential for friendship and understanding is there, and I consider that a worthier investment then a passionate love affair cut short by starvation and violence. Do you think I don't understand what you're going through? Didn't I also marry for money to ensure our safety and survival?"

"Your ideas are striking," Natia returned. "In that they're the same as my father's. I had them from him, you may be interested to know -- and with all the brilliancy you may imagine -- yesterday."

Rica was clearly interested to know more. "He has been to see you?"

"No, I went to him."

"Really?" Rica wondered. "For what purpose?"

"To offer an alliance of sorts."

Rica stared. "To throw away everything--?"

"For a life of trade on the surface, yes. Don't look so worried; he won't have me."

"At least there's some decency to him," Rica commented, looking a bit more mollified now that she knew her sister would not be engaging in such an unscrupulous business as the buying and selling of lyrium contracts.

"Who did you mean by Cousin Maud's 'young man'?" Natia asked before Rica could say anything else on the subject.

"Who should I mean but Ewen Dace?"

"And where did you pick up such gossip?" Natia asked, giving a short laugh. "How does it get down that hole to you?"

She had no sooner spoken than she wished to take it back. Rica had no friends to speak of in Orzammar; the nobles looked down on her and the dusters all thought she put on airs. All she had was her son and Bhelen, Bhelen who told her what clothes to wear and where she could go. While Natia was free on the surface, Rica was trapped in a pretty, gilded cage. Rica stayed in her "hole" for the good of the family, and then Natia heartlessly reflected on her being in it. Natia shifted awkwardly. She had never been very good at apologies. But Rica dismissed it, pretended that it didn't hurt like she had done so often before with other small wounds. "Please, just think on what I said," Rica stated. "If not Ewen Dace, then someone else. Someone better. I pray to the Stone that your life is filled with love and romance, but not at the expense of your own health and security and that of our family's."


End file.
